"No, Sergeant!" Caveman shouted, face red, spraying saliva.
Singh spat and marched across the ranks. "Not one of you little shits is presentable. If this is how you prepare for me, how the fuck will you prepare next time the scum attack? Return to your tents! Back here in thirty seconds, and you better look like soldiers, damn it. Go! Thirty! Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight!"
They scrambled back into the tent. Marco grabbed his shoe polish and gave his boots a few quick scrubs. Addy tucked her shirt into her trousers, while Caveman stumbled for his uniform, falling over as he tried to pull off his pajama pants. Elvis groaned as he splashed water onto his face from his canteen and searched for his razor.
They rushed back outside, formed rank, and again miserably failed their inspection. Caveman had his pajama pants around his ankles, while Elvis's face was covered with shaving cream. Marco honestly doubted that the scum would care what pants they wore or how stubbly their faces were, but Singh seemed to think they could defeat the aliens with polished boots and a clean shave. Finally, on the third attempt, Singh grunted and nodded.
"Pathetic," he said. "I'd have you all pulling latrine duty, the lot of you, but a rocket is waiting to take you someplace far, far worse than RASCOM. Follow me. And any one of you cockroaches falls out of rank, my prod falls into your gut."
They marched behind him through the darkness, lugging their duffel bags. Already, across the base, entire companies were drilling, marching, and shouting "Yes, Commander!" like it was a battle cry.
As they left RASCOM and headed back into the spaceport, Marco hoped he'd never see that jungle of concrete and barbed wire again.
* * * * *
As dawn rose, Marco, Addy, and the rest of the 4th Platoon stepped into the suborbital rocket. Their time at this sprawling Chilean labyrinth was ending. They were soldiers now, about to blast off toward their training. As Marco took his seat—again he sat near the top of the rocket where he could peek through the narrow viewport—the damn song from last night kept ringing through his ears. Kill the scum, kill the scum, kill the evil scum. For Earth's glory, beat the drums!
Marco sighed. "For Earth's glory, can I have a cushy job in the archives?" he muttered under his breath.
"What's that, recruit?" barked Sergeant Singh, climbing the ladder toward the top tier of seats.
"I said I can't wait to kill the scum, sir!" Marco said.
The sergeant glared at him. "I told you, recruit, I'm not an officer."
"Sorry, Sergeant. Too excited about the prospect of killing scum, si—Sergeant."
Rings of seats filled the rocket, spreading from engines below to cockpit above, like some towering, narrow amphitheater. The other platoons of the 42nd Company filled the rocket along with the Dragons Platoon. Soon four platoons, the entire company, filled the rocket—nearly two hundred soldiers. Sergeant Singh settled into a seat across from Marco, who instantly regretted sitting near the top. With the sarge nearby, conversation during the flight seemed unlikely.
When all the soldiers were seated, the officers entered the rocket. Four ensigns were here, the platoon commanders. Each had a single bar on their shoulder straps. Ensign Einav Ben-Ari climbed the ladder at their lead, face blank. As Marco looked at her, he thought again about the old stories from the Cataclysm, how Ben-Ari's country—that tiny stretch of coast called Israel—had been destroyed by the scum, how the nation's survivors found a new home in the HDF, dedicating their new lives to military careers.
When Ensign Ben-Ari passed by him, Marco made brief eye contact with her, and he saw cold determination . . . but also fear in her green eyes.
She's new to the military too, he thought. She's just a fresh graduate from military academy who's never seen battle. It was strange to think that in a year or two, Kemi would be an ensign as well, perhaps commanding a platoon of her own.
The ensigns climbed through a hatch, entering a higher level in the rocket.
"The officers fly first class," Addy whispered, leaning toward Marco. "Same as they eat from a better kitchen and sleep in comfy beds. Fuck me, I should go to military academy."
"You need good grades to get into military academy," Marco whispered back.
Addy bristled. "I got an A+ in gym!"
They fell silent at a glare from Sergeant Singh.
Following the ensigns climbed another officer, this one a few years older. He was a muscular, black-haired man with heavy eyebrows, and insignia on his shoulders displayed three bars.
"That's a captain," Addy whispered as the officer entered the chamber above and closed the hatch behind him. "That's the highest-ranking officer we've seen so far. He must command this entire company."
Marco thought it strange. Here in the military, nobody seemed to care who you were on the outside. Nobody cared if Marco was writing a novel, if Addy excelled at hockey, if Elvis could sing. All that mattered was the insignia on your sleeves or shoulders. That was all. Who you were, what you were worth—all just a few chevrons or bars. It was a depressing thought.
With blasting flame and smoke and roaring metal, they took off.
As the rocket soared, the g-force pressed down on them like the weight of scum queens. Again Addy clasped Marco's hand, her face pale. At his other side, Lailani hooted and cried out, voice nearly drowning in the din, "Yeah, time to go kill the scum!"
The sound died and the pressure eased as they breached the atmosphere. As the rocket leveled off, Marco stared out the viewport. Endless stars spread above. Below, he could see the coast of Chile and the curve of the ocean beyond. They were heading east, soon crossing South America and heading over the Atlantic. By the time they reached Africa, the rocket turned, taking Earth out of view. Marco saw nothing but stars.
They began to descend.
Fire obscured the viewport.
Surrounded with smoke, they slammed down onto the ground. Marco had no idea where they were, but judging by the last image he had seen, they were somewhere in North Africa.
They emerged from the rocket to find a desert.
Marco had thought that Chile was hot, but even that soupy land had not prepared him for this heat. Waves of dry, searing air hit him like blasts from an oven. Whoever had said that dry heat was tolerable had obviously never been to this place. The sun baked his hair, and the tarmac of the small spaceport shimmered.
Dunes surrounded the landing pad, and the sky had never seemed larger, a massive bowl of pale blue. A path led toward a metal fence topped with barbed wire and lined with guard towers. A flag of the HDF hung above the metal gates. A few guards stood there, helmets on their heads and submachine guns in hand. A sign above them read: Fort Djemila Basic Combat Training.
The recruits took formation on the tarmac, each platoon joined by its officer and sergeant. One by one, the platoons marched into the military base. As the Dragons Platoon passed through the gates, one of the guards muttered "Fresh meat" to his friend. Marco had heard that phrase too many times these past twenty-four hours. He imagined that in a military that served Spam with every meal, fresh meat was simply an appealing concept. He looked to check the guards' ranks but saw none; their sleeves and shoulders were clear of insignia.
They're just recruits, Marco realized, looking at those helmets and guns.
Gunfire sounded in the distance, interrupting his thoughts. Marco stiffened, wondering if the scum were attacking. More and more machine guns blazed.
"Keep marching, recruits!" Sergeant Singh barked. "Follow!"
They passed through the metal gates, entering the base . . . and began their training to become killers.
If RASCOM had been a massive hive of concrete, towers, roaring engines, screaming jets, and confusion, Fort Djemila was a desolate wasteland. There were barely any buildings here within the fence. Marco saw one concrete building that might have been a mess hall, a smaller building that could have been showers, and a few trailers, but that was about it. The rest was just rocky fields, dunes, hills, and boulders. He could just make out rows o
f tents in the distance past marching soldiers. No tanks or jets, no towering barracks of concrete and metal, no jungles full of rude monkeys. Sand, stone, tents, heat, and searing sunlight—that was Fort Djemila somewhere here in North Africa.
"Form rank!" Singh barked, forcing them to repeat the drill several times as he timed them. Whenever they were too slow, he had them drop and give him twenty push-ups. When finally they stood in rows of three, Singh shouted, "Attention!"
The recruits stood stiffly. As they would do back in RASCOM, Addy, Marco, and Elvis formed one trio. At his one side stood another trio: Lailani, Caveman, and the hulking Beast. At Marco's other side stood a far less appealing trio: the smirking Pinky and two of his henchmen, both brutes of the type seen on wanted ads.
As the recruits stood under the searing heat, Sergeant Singh saluted, and Ensign Ben-Ari approached. The young officer turned her cold green eyes upon the platoon. Even in the heat, Marco felt a chill. For the first time since assuming command of the Dragons Platoon, the officer spoke to her soldiers.
"Welcome to hell," she said. "Welcome to ten weeks that will break your body and spirit. I will shatter you here. I will mold you into killers. You will become scum-slayers. Is that understood?"
"Yes, ma'am!" they shouted.
Ensign Ben-Ari nodded. "Not all of you will survive this training. Fewer will survive the scum. I have ten weeks—that is all—to turn you from soft boys and girls into soldiers. And I've brought help."
On cue, an armored jeep rolled up, belching out fumes and casting clouds of sand. Three soldiers hopped out, dressed in battle fatigues. They wore helmets and body armor, and they carried heavy assault rifles—not sleek plasma weapons like the one Ben-Ari carried but crude, rude bullet-sprayers. All three soldiers were young, and their insignia displayed two chevrons on their sleeves. Marco recognized that rank already; they were corporals.
They're one rank below Sergeant Singh, Marco thought. And far below Ensign Ben-Ari. Yet infinitely higher than us recruits.
If Ben-Ari was a goddess, and if Sergeant Singh was her angel of wrath, corporals were holy knights—and the recruits were mere peasants.
The three corporals stood at attention and saluted Ensign Ben-Ari. She returned the salute. "At ease," she told them, then turned back toward the recruits. "I'm dividing this platoon into three squads. A corporal will lead each one. You will report to your squad leaders, who will report to Sergeant Singh, who reports to me. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am!" the recruits shouted.
"These corporals have fought the scum," said Ensign Ben-Ari. "They killed scum. They saw friends die in scum claws. And they will teach you how to kill them too. Each squad commander will teach his or her recruits how to clean, fire, and love your weapon, how to love killing the enemy." The officer turned toward her corporals and raised her voice. "Corporal Railey Webb!"
One of the three corporals stepped forward and saluted. "Yes, ma'am!"
Corporal Webb was a slender woman with brown skin and dark eyes, and black curls peeked from under her helmet, just long enough to cover her forehead. Her battle fatigues were sandy, and her T57 assault rifle hung across her back, nearly as tall as she was. She moved effortlessly on two prosthetic legs. Marco had known amputees—there were many back in Toronto, victims of the scum attacks—who wore realistic prosthetics that looked almost identical to actual limbs. Corporal Webb wore something different. Her prosthetics were thin, curved, and metallic like blades, built not for realism but speed. Marco had heard of such prosthetics—Blade Runners, they called them. They let their owners run and leap faster than they ever could on real legs. Marco wondered if Webb had lost her legs in a great battle, had come here to train new warriors while nursing her wounds.
"Corporal Webb, you'll command the first squad," said Ensign Ben-Ari. The officer pulled on augmented reality sunglasses and read out names, and fifteen recruits went to stand behind Corporal Webb.
"Corporal Fiona St-Pierre!" Ben-Ari called out.
Another corporal stepped forward and saluted. She had dusty yellow hair, a prominent nose, and a bad case of acne. Cruelty filled her blue eyes, and her lips were a thin, bitter line. Fifteen other recruits joined her squad. Marco was grateful he wasn't among them. He didn't like that bitterness in St-Pierre's eyes.
"Corporal Emilio Diaz!" Ben-Ari said.
The third and last corporal stepped forward and saluted. He was a tall, muscular man with black eyes and a wide jaw. He moved with grace that belied his size, and his assault rifle hung across his hip. An ugly scar ran up one of his forearms. Marco felt small, thin, and young by this scarred warrior.
"All of you who remain," Ben-Ari said to the recruits, "join Corporal Diaz's squad."
Marco was glad that he had stood by his friends. It meant he would share a squad with Addy, Lailani, Elvis, Caveman, and even Beast; the hulking Russian had been growing on him. Unfortunately, Pinky and his henchmen were in the same squad. The fifteen recruits took formation behind Corporal Diaz.
Ensign Ben-Ari faced the three squads of her platoon. "You come to me scared, weak, and confused. But we will make you warriors. This is an ugly war. This is a vicious enemy. This training will be the hardest ten weeks of your lives. But know this, soldiers of Earth: I am proud of every one of you, and I will do everything that I can to help you succeed."
With that, Ensign Ben-Ari and Sergeant Singh entered the jeep and drove off in a cloud of dust, leaving the recruits with their corporals.
"All right, you sacks of shit!" Corporal Diaz said, pacing in front of his squad. "Goddamn. Ensign Ben-Ari might be proud of you, but you'll have to prove your worth to me." He raised his submachine gun. "You see this son of a bitch? This is a T57 assault rifle, capable of firing in semi-automatic or automatic modes to a range of fifteen hundred meters and powerful enough to tear through solid steel. It fires good old bullets. That's right, bullets, same as you see in two-hundred-year-old John Wayne movies. It did the job back then, and it does the job now. Plasma blasts and lasers might be good for fancy officers. But this bad boy is going to kill the scum in the field." The corporal cocked his rifle. "This specific bad boy tore through three scum warriors and spilled their insides across the Appalachian Trail. And I'm going to show you how to do the same."
Elvis called out, "Question, sir!"
Corporal Diaz turned toward the boy. "I'm not an officer, soldier. Don't you sir me. You will call me Corporal or Commander."
"Yes, s—I mean, yes, Commander!" said Elvis.
"What's wrong with your sideburns?" Corporal Diaz asked.
Elvis had shortened his sideburns at RASCOM, but they still grew impressively long. "Sorry, si—Commander! I was born with long sideburns, Commander."
Diaz stepped closer to the recruit. "Get those things shaved off, or you're likely to trip on them. What's your question?"
Elvis cleared his throat. "With all due respect, si—Commander, you fought the scum in the Appalachians. You killed the scum. Why are you here, training us miserable recruits, when you could be spraying bullets into alien guts?"
"Excellent question!" said Corporal Diaz. "Did everyone hear Recruit Sideburns? You want to know why I'm wasting my time with you babies instead of killing scum? We'll, I'll show you why." The corporal slung his weapon across his back and pulled up his shirt. Two ugly, apple-sized scars appeared on his chest. When the corporal turned around, he revealed two matching scars on his back. He pulled his shirt back down. "Scum bastards got me in the mountains. Two claws like scimitars tore through me, shattering four segments in my spine. You might think you know pain, but you don't truly know pain until scum claws shatter your spine, pierce your lungs, snap your ribs, and nearly rip out your heart. I got titanium bones in my spine now and an artificial lung, and I thank God Almighty every day, because my squad buddies weren't as lucky. Their teeth had to be fished out of scum shit to be identified. My fighting days are over now, but I can still train new killers to pick up where I stopped."
They al
l stared at him with wide eyes.
"Corporal Diaz is a fucking badass," Addy whispered to Marco.
The corporal spun around and marched toward her. "Name, recruit!" he barked.
"Addy Linden, Commander!"
"Did I ask you a question, Linden?"
"No, Commander!"
"Down! Forty push-ups and extra guard duty tonight."
"Yes, Commander!" Addy said, dropped down, and shouted out forty push-ups. She rose, panting and glistening with sweat. "Question, Commander!"
"What is it, Linden?"
Addy's eyes shone. "When do we get our guns, Commander? I want to spray scum with bullets."
"Right now you don't spray spit without an order from me." Diaz looked across his squad. "I'd sooner trust my grandmother with a Behemoth tank than you lot with a peashooter. You'll get your weapons once you've proven your worth. You can start now, all of you, by running three kilometers. Go."
They ran.
Marco had never been much of a runner, and he was soon wheezing, sweat soaking his uniform. He understood now why battle fatigues were opened at the armpits. Caveman and Elvis wheezed at his sides, faces red, hair soaked with sweat. Clouds of dust rose all around them. Addy, meanwhile, seemed to have no problem with the run. She was leisurely jogging at the front of the line, right behind Corporal Diaz, and hadn't even seemed to break a sweat. Pinky, that little lunatic, was so fast he ran past the corporal. Even Lailani de la Rosa, the smallest recruit in the platoon—a couple of inches shorter than the diminutive Pinky—was racing ahead.
When the three kilometers had finally ended, Marco found no relief. Corporal Diaz was crueler even than Sergeant Singh. He had the recruits do push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, then repeat the cycle. Marco imagined that, yes, this had to be as bad as scum claws in your spine.
"You want to eat again?" Diaz said. "I'm not tossing apple cores your way until you give me another kilometer."
They ran again.
Earth Alone (Earthrise Book 1) Page 9
